Game of Thrones: A Song Of Blood & Fire

Author's Note:

Hello, dear readers!

I want to take a moment to address the pacing of this story. You may have noticed that the narrative is unfolding at a slower pace, focusing heavily on character development, world-building, and intricate details. This is intentional. Rather than rushing through major events, I want to explore the depth of each moment, allowing the characters to grow naturally and immersing you in the world of Westeros.

That being said, there will be moments where the pace picks up—intense action, battles, and major turning points. However, these will be rare and only when the story truly calls for it. The overall progression will remain steady and detailed, as I believe this approach will make those fast-paced moments even more impactful when they arrive.

If you're looking for a story that rushes through events, this may not be the right fit. But if you enjoy deep storytelling, rich character arcs, and meaningful progression, I hope you'll continue this journey with me.

Thank you for your patience and support! Your thoughts and feedback are always appreciated.

Happy reading!

Valar Morghulis.

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Jaehaerys Targaryen's POV – The Funeral of the Fallen and the Burden of Kingship.

The week following the small council meeting had passed in a haze of whispered condolences, veiled glances, and the unrelenting weight of duty pressing down upon Jaehaerys' shoulders.

His father was gone, his mother was gone, and his brother Duncan was gone. His house was weaker than it had ever been, its great warriors and wise rulers reduced to smoke and whispers.

And yet, there were no bodies to bury. No bones to lay in the earth.

The wildfire had consumed everything. 

There were no remains.

Not even Ash.

The flames had left nothing behind, no bones to inter, no flesh to mourn—only empty space where once there had been kings and dreams.

It was as if Summerhall had never existed at all.

Jaehaerys stood at the head of the small gathering, his face a mask of cold resolve. His posture was unyielding, yet he could feel the weight pressing upon him. His father's dream had ended in fire, and now, it fell upon him to shape the future from the ashes. There would be no grand procession, no pyres to light. The dead were already taken by fire. The funeral would be private, held only for family and those who served the Crown.

The bells of the Great Sept of Baelor tolled in slow, solemn chimes, their echoes rolling over the streets of King's Landing like the mournful cry of the gods themselves. The city stood draped in black and red—mourning banners hanging from the windows of noble manors, while common folk tied strips of dark cloth around their arms, paying their final respects to their fallen king and queen. The ringing of bells sent a chill through him—one not born of the cool morning air, but of something deeper, something heavier.

It had been almost two months since the tragedy at Summerhall.

Two months since House Targaryen had lost its heart.

And today, the funeral would mark the end of an era. The funeral was to be small, and private—a gathering of the royal family, the Small Council, and the most trusted of retainers. There were no remains to mourn, no bodies to be laid upon the pyres, no ashes to scatter to the winds.

And so, the Seven Kingdoms would bury five empty coffins, filled only with the personal belongings of the dead.

The Great Sept of Baelor loomed ahead, its seven crystal towers piercing the heavens, its golden dome glinting beneath the pale morning sun. The enormous statues of the Seven stood in solemn witness—the Father, the Mother, the Warrior, the Maiden, the Smith, the Crone, and the Stranger—watching over them as if judging the worth of their sorrow.

Inside, the halls were filled with the scent of incense and aged candle wax. The vaulted ceilings, adorned with murals of saints and kings, swallowed sound, leaving only the hush of whispered prayers and quiet weeping.

The High Septon, an elderly man clad in robes of woven silver and white, stood upon the dais, his frail hands raised in solemn reverence.

Before him, upon the cold marble floor, were five coffins—They were crafted of polished black oak, lined with silver, each bearing the sigil of House Targaryen. The names of the dead were carved onto plaques of cold steel, as though to defy the fire that had consumed them.

But there was nothing inside them.

There were no bodies. No ashes. Not even bones.

Instead, each coffin held the last remnants of their lives.

Each coffin held only relics of their past—King Aegon's crown, his dream of a better kingdom buried with him. Queen Betha's embroidered wedding cloak and a silver bracelet, engraved with the names of her children, a mother's love left unfulfilled. Duncan's wedding ring. A token from his wife, the woman for whom he had given up a kingdom. Jenny's woven flowers, the last trace of a love never meant for thrones. The greatsword of Ser Duncan reforged and shattered by fire, his old cloak, white as freshly fallen snow, was draped across his. These tokens would take their place in the tombs, for the bodies they represented no longer existed.

The weight of their absence was suffocating.

"We stand before the gods, in grief and reverence, to bid farewell to those who have left this mortal coil." The High Septon's echoed through the sept, each syllable weighted with solemnity and divine authority.

The High Septon continued, his voice steady, though lined with sorrow:

"We gather under the eyes of the Seven, to bid farewell to those who have passed beyond the veil. The Father, who judges us all, now takes them into His wisdom. The Mother, whose love is boundless, weeps for their passing. The Warrior, who grants strength, now lays down their burdens. The Maiden, who sees all innocence, remembers them in her grace."

His voice echoed in the great chamber, carrying the weight of tradition and faith.

The congregation knelt as the High Septon performed the sacred rites of the Seven.

One by one, he recited the sacred words, offering each soul to the gods.

"May the Smith guide them to the halls of their fathers."

"May the Crone's lantern light their path."

"May the Stranger, in His mercy, take them beyond pain."

The silence afterwards was as deep as the grave.

Seven sacred oils were anointed upon the coffins, each representing the passage from life into the next world. Incense burned, its fragrant tendrils curling toward the ceiling as if carrying the prayers of those gathered toward the gods themselves.

Jaehaerys watched, unmoving, his face an unreadable mask. He stood still, feeling the weight of every word, every chime of the bells. The Seven had abandoned them that night in Summerhall. Now, they spoke of mercy.

He was not sure if he could believe in their mercy anymore.

Jaehaerys inhaled sharply, steadying himself.

The realm would never see their like again.

He could not grieve as a son, not now. He was a king, and kings did not weep before their people.

When the prayers were spoken and the final blessings given, the coffins were sealed, their carved lids shut with solemn care. There was a silent understanding that these were merely symbols—nothing remained of the true bodies, only memories.

They would be taken by ship to Dragonstone, the ancestral home of House Targaryen, where they would be interred in the crypts alongside their forebears and hope their spirits might find rest.

Aerys stood beside Jaehaerys, his expression unreadable. He had always seen himself as untouchable, destined for greatness—but even he could not ignore the sheer finality of the ceremony.

Shaera and Rhaella stood close, draped in dark veils, their faces pale with grief. Aemon was held by Shaera, his wide violet eyes solemn and moist as if sensing the weight of the moment.

Aemon watched it all unfold, his mind a storm of thoughts.

He should have cried.

But he did not.

Instead, he felt something else, something worse than grief.

Lord Ormund Baratheon stood in grim silence, his broad shoulders set in quiet strength. He was more than just the Hand of the King now—he was the only pillar holding Jaehaerys upright.

But Ser Duncan's coffin would not go with them.

Instead, he would rest in the White Sword Tower, alongside the greatest Kingsguard to ever serve.

He had no wife, no children—only his oath, his shield, and his sword.

Even in death, he would guard his king.

When the rites had concluded, the solemn march began.

The coffins, carried upon the shoulders of King's Landing's finest guardsmen, made their way through the streets toward the harbour.

Thousands had gathered along the winding streets of King's Landing. Some wept openly, remembering the days of King Aegon's reign. While other's hands clasped in prayer, bowed their heads in silent respect. Children clutched their mothers' skirts, watching in awe. The people gathered in mourning, lining the roads, whispering prayers, and tossing white flowers before the path.

The Goldcloaks struggled to contain the crowd, forming a line of steel between the grieving city and the slow-moving procession. The air was thick with the smell of incense, mingling with the salt of the Blackwater Bay beyond.

The bells of the Great Sept of Baelor tolled, their deep chimes echoing through the city, each ring a final farewell.

The Targaryen royal family followed in silence.

At the harbour, The great Royal Dromond, its sails emblazoned with the sigil of House Targaryen, awaited at the docks. Each coffin was carried onto a sleek black vessel, sails adorned with the three-headed dragon, prepared for their journey across Blackwater Bay.

Dragonstone awaited them.

It was Aerys' duty to lead the procession.

The journey to Dragonstone would take a full day by ship, but Aerys, as the soon-to-be Lord of Dragonstone and heir to the throne, would escort the coffins himself.

One coffin did not go to Dragonstone.

Unlike the others, Ser Duncan would not rest on Dragonstone.

Ser Duncan the Tall, the greatest knight of his time, would be laid to rest not among kings, but among those he had sworn to protect.

His coffin, adorned with the white cloak of the Kingsguard, was taken to the White Sword Tower, the sacred residence of the Kingsguard.

His name would be etched upon the White Book, among the legends before him.

Ser Gerold Hightower, the Bull, standing as the highest-ranking Kingsguard, led the final vigil.

Six knights.

All the remaining Kingsguard, each clad in white, stood around the casket, their heads bowed in silent respect.

Gerold spoke, voice steady. "Ser Duncan the Tall was the greatest of us," his voice gruff. "The sword and shield of kings. May he guard them still, in the halls beyond."

The Kingsguard knelt, placing their swords against the stone floor in a final salute.

They buried his coffin just like all the previous guardians.

The doors closed behind him. And with that, Duncan the Tall's watch ended.

As the gathering dispersed, Aerys approached Jaehaerys, his usual arrogance laced with something deeper—pride, but also expectation.

"You should be the one leading the procession, father," Aerys said, his tone smooth, but with an underlying edge. "You are the king now."

Jaehaerys met his gaze. "And as king, my duty is here."

He could see the disappointment in Aerys' face, though his son quickly masked it. Aerys wanted to be more than just heir—he wanted to be important, to be seen. This duty gave him a taste of power, even if it was just an honor-bound journey.

Lord Ormund Baratheon stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Aerys' shoulder. "You will represent House Targaryen on Dragonstone, my prince. Do not take this lightly."

Aerys smirked. "Of course not, my lord. I am a dragon, after all."

Jaehaerys gave a single nod. "Ensure our ancestors are honoured, Aerys. Then return at once."

As the ships were readied at the docks, Jaehaerys, Rhealle, Shaera, and Rhaella stood upon the harbour, watching the procession board.

The coffins, adorned in black and red banners, were carried aboard the royal vessel.

Shaera held Aemon close, pressing a kiss to his silver hair. "They should have lived," she murmured. "They should have seen you grow."

Jaehaerys turned away, his jaw tightening. There was no point in what-ifs.

The past was dead.

But he still had a realm to protect.

As the funeral procession ended, as the ships sailed toward Dragonstone, and as the last echoes of the bells faded into the city's whispers, Jaehaerys finally allowed himself a moment to breathe.

The weight of the crown was already upon him.

His father had dreamed of dragons reborn—and in his pursuit, had perished.

Jaehaerys had no such delusions.

He would not chase prophecy. He would not seek to create fire from stone.

He would rule. He would endure. He would not fail.

The wind carried the scent of salt and incense, the last vestiges of the day's mourning.

And in its wake, only duty remained.

As the ships sailed toward Dragonstone, disappearing into the horizon, Jaehaerys Targaryen turned back toward the Red Keep.

The funeral was over.

Now, the future awaited.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Jaehaerys Targaryen stood atop the Red Keep, gazing toward the sea where the royal fleet carried his family's remains home.

He felt… nothing.

No rage. No sorrow. No relief.

Only duty.

Aerys would return from Dragonstone in two weeks, for the coronation of his king.

By then, Jaehaerys would have to be ready.

No more grief. No more doubts.

The crown would sit upon his head. And the future of House Targaryen would rest in his hands.

GENERAL POV: 2 WEEKS LATER

King's Landing bustled with restless energy, the air thick with the scent of the sea, roasted meats, and the sweat of thousands. The city, the beating heart of the Seven Kingdoms, was dressed in banners of crimson and black.

The bells of the Great Sept of Baelor tolled across King's Landing, their deep, echoing chimes rolling over the city like thunder before a storm.

It had been two weeks since the funeral of King Aegon V and the fallen royals. And now, the realm stood on the edge of a new era.

Today, Jaehaerys II Targaryen would be crowned.

The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen loomed over the streets, rippling from every tower and parapet. On the cobbled streets, merchants hawked their wares—fine silks, golden trinkets, spiced wine from the Summer Isles—each hoping to take advantage of the influx of lords, knights, and common folk who had come to witness the dawn of a new reign.

The commoners, packed shoulder to shoulder in the winding streets, were alive with speculation. Some cheered, hopeful that this new king would usher in a golden age. Others whispered in hushed voices, fearful of what change might bring. The older folk, those who remember Maegor's rule, muttered among themselves, their eyes filled with the caution of those who had learned not to trust too easily.

The Gold Cloaks of the City Watch stood at every corner, their ranks doubled for the occasion. Crime in King's Landing had always been rampant, but today was different—today, the city belonged to House Targaryen.

The great avenue leading from the Red Keep to the Great Sept had been cleared, lined with golden torches and dragon banners. The streets were swept clean, and the air smelled of incense and fresh rushes, masking the usual stench of King's Landing. It was a day of ceremony, of pageantry, and of power.

Beneath the revelry, beneath the festivities, an undercurrent of tension ran through the city like a second pulse.

At the gates of the capital, the noble houses arrived in splendour. Their processions wound through the city like glittering serpents, banners snapping in the wind, knights in polished plates riding alongside carriages of gilded wood.

House Stark, led by Lord Rickard Stark, arrived with a disciplined northern host, their direwolf sigil stark against white banners. They rode with quiet dignity, their furs and armour hinting at the cold lands they hailed from.

House Tully, under Lord Hoster Tully, displayed the leaping trout of Riverrun, their banners of red and blue fluttering as their knights rode in formation, a proud display of the Riverlands' strength.

House Arryn, guided by Lord Jon Arryn, arrived with the proud falcon of the Vale soaring above their party. Their retainers in blue and white carried themselves with the stoic discipline of the high mountains.

House Lannister, under the ageing soft-hearted Lord Tytos Lannister, made a grand entrance. The red-and-gold lions of Casterly Rock came in full opulence—gold-trimmed armour, brocade doublets, and a retinue of musicians playing a triumphant march.

House Tyrell, led by Lord Luthor Tyrell, followed soon after, their procession perfumed by the scent of roses, a calculated show of wealth and influence. Their banners of green and gold stood vibrant under the sun, a stark contrast to the more sombre hues of the other houses.

House Baratheon, represented by Steffon Baratheon, the nephew of the royal family, entered in a storm of banners depicting the crowned stag. His presence carried an air of closeness to the throne, a subtle reminder of his familial ties to House Targaryen.

House Nymeros Martell, represented by the elderly Prince Quentyn Martell, rode into the city with the sun-and-spear sigil gleaming on their banners. Alongside him was Princess Dorea Nymeros Martell, handmaiden and closest friend to Princess Rhaella, adding an element of Dornish grace and intrigue to the procession.

House Hightower, one of the most influential vassals of the Reach, arrived under the leadership of the esteemed Lord Manfred Hightower. Their banners bore the great white tower crowned with fire, symbolizing their immense wealth and connection to Oldtown. Their arrival carried weight, as the Hightowers controlled one of the most significant ports and trade hubs in the realm, and their influence within the Citadel was unmatched.

House Greyjoy, led by Lord Quellon Greyjoy, made their entrance with the Kraken sigil of the Iron Islands flying proudly. Their ships had anchored at the Blackwater Rush, and their ironborn knights rode through the streets, their sea-worn armour a stark contrast to the polished steel of the mainland lords. Their presence was a reminder of the Ironborn's independence and the delicate balance of their allegiance.

In the halls of the Red Keep, the true game had begun long before the first lords had set foot in the city. Ravens had flown, letters sealed and delivered in secrecy, quiet meetings held in candlelit chambers. Whispers of alliances and betrayals hummed through the castle corridors. The new king's ascension would shift the balance of power, and every lord present knew that the days ahead would define their fates. Some, like Tywin Lannister, watched with an inscrutable gaze, measuring the worth of the new ruler. Others, like Hoster Tully, remained cautious, their words careful and calculated. The Great Houses were not the only players—lesser lords and ambitious courtiers manoeuvred through the feasts and gatherings, looking for opportunities to rise.

Beneath the pomp, beneath the grandeur, shadows lingered. In the hidden corners of Flea Bottom and the twisting alleys of the city, eyes watched. Some belonged to spies, informants, and agents of noble houses, feeding their masters the whispers of the streets. Others were more dangerous—the remnants of Blackfyre sympathizers, hidden in the folds of the capital like embers waiting to be fanned into flame. They watched the banners of the dragons fly once more and wondered if this would be the moment to strike or if they must wait longer still.

The city waited, breath held. The bells had yet to ring, and the crown had yet to be placed, but already the realm shifted, the game unfolding with each passing moment. Soon, the coronation would begin, and with it, the fate of Westeros would be sealed anew.